


Inexplicably and Utterly Paired

by kittyyzma



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Everything just happened so fast and my feels did not deal with it well, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, I guess this counts as an Alternate Universe?, I just have a lot of Thorkyrie feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-08-02 21:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16312985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyyzma/pseuds/kittyyzma
Summary: So Thor didn't prevent Ragnarok... He kind of caused it. Now headed for Earth to find refuge, Thor finds his footing as King and Valkyrie proves to be more than a warrior with a dark backstory. Through heartbreak and tragedy, they find themselves inexplicably and utterly paired.(Or the one where Infinity War left me completely starved of Thorkyrie goodness. And I had to rectify the situation. I dunno what's going on here either.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm sad that Valkyrie was not mentioned in Infinity War at all (not even a throwaway line!), my feels kicked into overdrive and have planted me firmly in this new AU. I'm pretending that there was a good amount of time between the ending of Ragnarok and the cut scene that shows Thanos intercepting the Asgardians on their way to Earth. So yes, we know where this is ending. But don't you fret; there's a little love story for my beloved Thorkyrie.  
> I'm so not sorry about loving them as much as I do. I was bound to give in and so I'm in no way responsible for what happens here.
> 
>  
> 
> *DISCLAIMER*  
> I don't own any of the characters mentioned throughout this fic—Marvel beat me to it.

The smile on Valkyrie’s face as Thor sits in _his_ throne shows no sign of completely disappearing. She’s happy and relieved to see him minding this new role with a seriousness she didn’t think him capable. Granted—and she took an embarrassingly long while to accept coming to this conclusion—Valkyrie hadn’t known him very well, and it’s even worse that she’d drawn conclusions of his character without so much as a thought that she may be wrong. But he fought. Thor is a fighter—a paladin of good—and continues to hold onto little bit of _innocence._  With the 500 years of life she has on him, not once did she stop to consider his undeniable goodness was not reason enough to help him succeed at saving their home. But she’s glad she didn’t listen to the doubt. And Asgard, the place, may have gone up in the flames, the people are safe. It’s been so long since she’s called them _hers,_ but they are, they’re her people and it’s been way too long since she’s thought of others interests over her own. 

Her knack for self preservation took her to Sakaar, made her the best Scrapper The Grandmaster could have hoped for. And for a while, it was enough, pushing down centuries worth of pain and grief— burying everything at the bottom of an ale, before her stomach swallowed the rest of it. It didn’t need to be processed because she simply drinks until she can’t feel. 

Thor’s undeniable ability to see right through her crap caught her off guard, he didn’t even realize he’d done so. He smiled at her in a way that simply regurgitated the memories of home—what it feels like to be amongst her kind. He didn’t look at her like she was some lost, broken being. And in the process forced her to remember herself— a fighter. No one can take that from her. 

Stories of her past were hard to shake on Sakaar. When they weren’t fawning over the Hulk, people took an interest in the Grandmaster’s best Scrapper, a proven formidable opponent, and from the looks of her tattoo: a Valkyrie. And into her life Thor crashed; with no preamble, and no regret. In hours he realized who she is and her bubble effectively burst. She’d only been comforted by the idea he would have been crushed by The Grandmaster’s champion. Of course that didn’t happen and she’d been impressed by his courage. Perhaps she knew from that moment that she would help him if he asked nicely enough, if she was bored with her circumstances…  _ enough _ . 

She watches him now, her hair flowing freely past her shoulders, truly appreciating his hold on her. His unflinching resolve forced her out of her denial—she can’t run from her life forever. Being a drunk—an  _ uncaring  _ drunk—is not who she is. And though her ability to chug an entire carafe of alcohol is a great party trick, he was right to call her on her shit when he did. He called her a coward, a deserter who’d forsake her post as a mighty warrior. He was wrong of course, to assume. But he had done her a favor. Thor had reminded her of at least one thing—she was allowing loss to  _ ruin her.   _

Heimdall pats her shoulder in passing, giving a nod, “I knew you hadn’t forgotten.” 

The Warrior bows her head momentarily, accepting what he says. He may have been certain, but she wasn’t. She doesn’t want to voice her conflicts to Heimdall—even if he’d understand. It feels silly to have tried running and hiding from who she is.

Thor looks back at her then, noting that she was  _ still  _ standing there. Everyone else dispersing  to all other inhabitable portions of the ship, no longer amused or shaken by the dark abyss of space—just tired. Everyone is incredibly tired. But not her, she’s concerned of Thor’s wellbeing. It feels weird to think of not just herself, but the man just days ago imprisoned by her doing. He doesn’t look like he blames her at all. It’s unhealthy probably, that he’s forgiven her so swiftly simply because she got him from Sakaar back to Asgard. But with his goodness, comes his ability to forgive. His relationship with Loki—mystifying and exhausting to even try and understand—is testament to his ability to let the past be the past. She however, finds the niggling of hatred for Loki, for his tricks, reminding her of those she’s lost is still there. The God of Mischief is avoiding her.  

“Keeping an eye on me, are you?” Thor asks, amused. She folds her hands in front of herself as she smirks and steps closer to his seat. 

“You need the help,” she comments, making him snort. She watches him drag his hand across his face tiredly, gentle fingers ghosting over his eye patch. She’s even more endeared to him than she cares to admit. She never will say the words out loud. He lets out a yawn, a soft smile returning seconds later. 

“That’s rude,” He replies, not at all hurt like his reply could suggest. The soft smile she’s grown to expect is right there for her to see, corners of his mouth upturned flirtatiously. She almost rolls her eyes at him. He gave her the same look when she presented him with his seat. 

Leaning her hip on the throne, her arm resting above his head, she looks down at him, “Are you sure heading to Midgard is the best idea?” 

“The best option,” Thor nods, idly gazing out at the darkness of space. He’s slouched, but relaxed. “You disagree?”

“I’ve never been. I can’t say there’s no risk. There’s always risk” She says with a sigh. “But if you’re certain…”

“I am,” Thor says, thinking of all the times he’s saved the Midgardians at this point. They always seem to be in danger— it’s kind of disheartening. Why can no one ever just stay saved? “They love me.”

She laughs at his one piece of criteria. It may not be a good reason, or any reason at all. But what other options do they have? “Well, then I trust you.” 

He looks at her,  blue eyes bright with pride. She can’t help but smile while he stares at her. “That means a lot to me, Valkyrie.” 

“Brunnhilde,” The warrior says, finding the title _Valkyrie_ to be a reminder of too much pain. He should know _her_ name.  She breathes in deep, and then stares at the stars, the big window gives an inviting look at the abyss ahead of them. Her heart thumps in anticipation of the unknown. Her heart aches to know there is a huge gap where Asgard once was. “I didn’t think I’d miss it, you know? I was so angry.”

“You have a lot to be angry about,” He says sadly. “You and your sisters were brave.” 

She snorts without humor. Knowing her sisters died at Hela’s hand, and she had froze seeing her lover die in her place… being reminded of bravery is no consolation. “We were meant to protect the throne, all knowing one day we’d die. You forget it’s what others consider bravery—it becomes second nature. Hela was stronger than we’d anticipated, and we weren’t prepared.  It was a bloodbath and Odin… He  _ knew.”  _ Being used as a pawn leaves her with a new level of disdain pointed at the dead king. She still feels so much rage she can never shout at him. “When you and I met…. when I found you, I knew you. I wanted to hate you. But you aren’t your father.” 

“He had so many secrets I can never ask him about,” Thor is left feeling sick and conflicted. The man he remembers as a loving, wise father and king had a dark, cruel past. “What my father did to you and the rest of the Valkyrior was wrong.” Thor says. He remembers all the valiant women who fought for their home planet. They didn’t deserve to be left to Hela and her whims. His sister took his eye without thought. She knew no mercy and Odin discarded them knowing Hela would destroy them all while she felt unparalleled giddiness in the face of battle,  “I am sorry… and I’m sorry I accused you of being a coward.” 

She nods, accepting his apology. The last warrior of her kind can feel his sincerity and the moment is filled with regretful sorrow that he should not be carrying. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know. And that was how he meant it to be.” She can see the very second his inner conflict flows to the surface, simmering right behind a blank stare, “It was another time,” She adds with a sigh. Hoping to levy some of his pain, she runs her hand along his sturdy shoulders. 

“You’re old,” He jokes lightly, winking at her playfully even though he’s feeling crushed under the weight of realization. She scoffs before replying.

”Very funny  _ Lord of Thunder,”  _ Brunnhilde teases smugly, seeing the eye roll he throws back at her. 

  
She laughs genuinely, distracted as he reaches up, hooking his fingers with hers, squeezing lightly. She holds tight, not wanting to let him go—knowing even now, so soon after meeting, she’ll  _ never  _ want to let go.


	2. Chapter 2

Staring at the ceiling as she lays in bed is nice, oddly. There's no noise permeating through the walls, so it's as if she's just floating away in space, alone. In the quiet It's easy to be in denial of all that's happened in the last week.

 _A week_.

She's over 2000 years old, seven days is nothing. But really, her days weren't filled with excitement like they were when she was still fighting alongside other warriors. So as she lays, she thinks of the turns her life has made recently. She doesn't feel like she's wasting away in sadness. Her pain is still palpable, but at least she can feel it thanks to sobriety at the moment. She could use a drink, she thinks. It's easy to trudge around with it buried away in the deep recesses of her mind. But it's no longer easy to ignore the tragedies of her past—the pain the Asgardian Empire has caused her.

She _really_ could use that drink.

She thinks of Thor and how much his father's lack of compassion in the days of old are a striking difference to the father he knows. She saw it in his face when they last spoke. He has a lot to reconcile with, but clearly Odin has seen change, which she can bitterly admit to herself, is a good thing. She just wished there hadn't been so many lies entangled in Asgardian history.

Rolling from bed, she begins to prepare for her day. She smooths her hands over her hair, tying it off so it's not in her face. She puts on her armor, smiling as she smooths her hands over the material. Despite what he said, she knows Thor went looking for it in the armory, not stumbling upon it like he's suggested. She smiles at his thoughtfulness. She'd only considered him a thoughtless brute, and she was so wrong.

The ship is quiet as she walks about, suspecting that everyone is still too uncomfortable and scared to just be mindlessly milling about the ship. Brunnhilde suspects the time of mourning will last until they get to earth, and even after. No one aboard this stolen vessel will find peace for a long time to come.

There are many halls and pathways that lead about the ship, many of them take curves and end up where they started. It didn't take her long to figure out which hallways were irrelevant to where she ever intended to be.

Headed for Thor's chambers—which he'd vehemently denied needing—she spots Bruce sitting in a window, staring out in wonder.

"Looking for planets?" She asks teasingly. He looks up then, jumping at the sound of her voice. From what she understands, he's smarter than the typical human and even he hadn't known how much he didn't understand of the planets. Midgardians have a such limited understanding.

"Just trying to wrap my head around everything," Bruce says, scratching the inside of his wrist. "Mainly with me."

"You were the Hulk for a very long time, I presume. Longer than you had been before?" She asks, sitting next to him. This hallway is bare. She's trying to figure out what the Grandmaster even needed this spaceship for, it's not as if he has a hordes of men and women wandering about the galaxy for reasons pertaining to conquest. Sakaar was founded on his goal to never be found again. Sakaar was literally just one big garbage dump when he landed upon it. When she looks at Bruce again, brows drawn in, she realizes he can see the thoughts churning about in his head. She clears her throat.

"Uh, yeah." He nods, "the last thing I remember about being me, as I am now, happened two years ago." When she grimaces, he lets out a soft laugh. "Scariest part was realizing I didn't remember any of it."

"Hulk had the time of his life," she says, attempting to lighten the mood. She elbows him as a sign of comraderie. "You and I were friends." And with that, he looks at her with widened eyes. He had come to know that they were at least friendly in the past considering they both felt like they knew one another. She nods, "Yup, I amused myself beating you up."

"Gee, thanks," he rolls his eyes.

She pats his arm, "I'm kidding. I just knew you weren't some mindless beast like The Grandmaster thought."

"Thank you," he smiles at that, feeling slightly better—not that he's comfortable with the idea of not knowing what exactly happened to him for the last couple years. He was some gladiator destroying opponent after opponent, vastly different from his life as Hulk on earth. The last several years on Earth, someone was trying to kill him and his friends. It seems the trend is still not set to end. Maybe that's why Hulk enjoyed being on Sakaar so much. "So, we were friends then? You and me?"

"For lack of a better term, yes," Brunnhilde nods slowly. "I guess we were."

"I'm sorry I don't remember then," Bruce apologizes and she's a little stunned by it.

"It's not a big deal," she shrugs. It wasn't as if she was a big sharer. "You weren't much for conversation anyways."

Bruce laughs, "Sounds like the big guy. Just huffy and mad."

"Pretty much," She joins his laughter, feeling lighter.

"So how do you know Thor?" Bruce asks, "I'm still trying to put the pieces together. And other than you finding us in town and deciding to join his… quest… I can't figure it out."

"Hmm.." she hums, brows furrowed. "I see...we don't. Not really." _Not at all,_ she wants to say. Though, she can't really explain that out loud without feeling like a fool. "We shared a common enemy and I just couldn't stand by any longer."

Bruce nods slowly in understanding. He knows that feeling, considering he uses Hulk's rage to fight for what's right despite wanting to hide from his abilities in the past. It gets to a point where it's impossible. Either fight or stand by and watch people get hurt.

"You must be happy to be going home," she says, changing the subject.

"Uh, yeah." Bruce scratches behind his ear, looking over at her again.

"Or not." She snorts, not feeling very confident in his response.

"It's a long story," he says, trailing off. He thinks of Ultron, and Nat's voice as he sat in the Quinjet, ultimately headed for Sakaar. That had been a painful day even for Hulk, as he accepted never wanting to be a burden to earth again. "I just don't know what exactly we're headed back to. Trying to be positive but preparing for something less than great. Realistically, we shouldn't expect open arms." There is a lot he knows will have to be explained, two years in space and all.

"Does Thor know that?"

"Do I know what?" The new King's voice breaks through the hallways silence. They can hear his heavy footfalls as he walks towards them.

"Nothing," Bruce says instead of answering forthright. "We were just catching up."

Thor looks at them both skeptically, and for a second, Brunnhilde stares at Bruce. She realizes then that he doesn't have a way to explain his concerns without causing Thor to spiral into second guessing. She can admit Earth is the only option for the time being. The Asgardians will adapt to life on Midgard best.

"How're you feeling?" Thor asks Bruce instead of pressing for details.

"I'm fine," Bruce says, standing and stretching his limbs, "it's nice to be me again. Even if you prefer the Hulk." There's a soft twinkle in his eye, teasing his friend. He may have been upset because of Thor's prodding on Sakaar but he understands Hulk's usefulness in retrospect. Hela wasn't just some scorned sister.

Thor snorts, "Let it go, man." He drones, exasperated.

Bruce shrugs, "Nope." He stands, "I think I'm going to find something to eat. You kids stay out of trouble…"

"How are you, Your Majesty?" Brunhilde asks as he's still watching Bruce disappear down the hall. He turns to her with his boyish smile, his eye patch adding a gruffness that suits him well.

"I'm well," he says, brows scrunching as he straightens and looks down at her. She really is such a tiny thing in comparable yet…

"Where are you headed?" She asks, still sitting. He takes up the space on the bench, comfortably spreading in the spot. She rolls her eyes at him as she smiles.

"No where now," Thor shrugs, "spoke to Heimdall and Asgard is accounted for." He doesn't say that all the lessons that were to prepare him for being King feel useless in this situation—living on a spaceship headed for Earth, no where else to go.

"Good," she nods, "That's very good." Suddenly she feels very awkward beside him. There's everything and nothing to say. She doesn't know how to do this anymore—to rejoice, or even commiserate.

"I wanted to speak to you about something…" Thor begins, clearing his throat. He didn't even think it required conversation, "I reckon, I'm the one who will say the most." He says, lip quirking up amusedly.

"Gods," she teases, "What about? Any more unhinged siblings... I want no part."

He laughs momentarily; he's appreciative of the tentative humor between them, if he's honest. He's settled into not feeling like such a child, worshiping her every move. She's not a figurehead—which he realizes, part of him assigned his childhood worship of the Valkryior onto her, hoping to force her hand without immediately stopping to see why she left.

She's flawed. She's real.

"Well… I've already apologized to you but I haven't thanked you. I know you didn't come back for me, but you did it because it was the right thing. Not many people in your position—who have lost what you have, would come back." He rambles on until she stops him, hand on his with a soft smile and a nod.

" _You_ went back," Brunnhilde says, hoping he can see she didn't expect a thank you. "You don't have to thank me for anything."

Thor sits back, nodding once. A moment passing and then he smiles, "I mean, you did kind of owe me—for the whole enslavement thing."

She winces, "Sorry about that…"

He laughs, his big hearty laugh that catches her off guard, "No you're not. 'I got paid for this—" he mimics her tone, voice higher than necessary and she cackles, making him speak through his own laughter. "is what you said when I said you'll pay for it."

"Well, I _did_." She can't argue, and his mischievous smirk is making it hard for her to focus. He's reducing her to some blushing girl—she hasn't been a _girl_ in centuries. "You're impossible. Accept my apology."

"How much was I worth anyway?" He asks curiously. "Did you know I was a prince?"

"A lot of credits… and some alterations on my ship." those alterations were all worthless considering she'll never get her ship back. "And no. I didn't. Not until you said it."

"I think I'm offended," Thor says, head cocked to the side as she snorts a laugh.

"Probably should be," She'll agree, sitting back beside him as well. She pulls in a deep breath, and she can feel him watching her. "So what now, Your Majesty?"

He's noticed the shift in the way she says _Your Majesty,_ and he doesn't like it. "You don't have to call me that, you know…"

She pauses, thinking about it. "Is it Your Highness?"

"Well, yes," He says, head tilting, brows raising. "But that is not what I meant… just Thor is fine, Brunnhilde. I'm not much of a King anyway."

"Yet."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this instead of sleeping. 0-1 against my insomnia.

She doesn’t bother denying the way her body buzzes when they stand near one another.

 

Brunnhilde has been alive far too long to deny herself the simple pleasures of having those kinds of _feelings._ And in general, it can’t be denied that Thor is a specimen of strength and brawn to behold. But underneath the sinew and muscle, he’s kind, thoughtful, sweet even. He’s shown it, his boyish quality that she allows herself to smile at in the quiet of her own head. He smiles at her easily when they walk, usually meeting over breakfast. But today, he wasn’t among those communing over dried rations and pitchers of water. She sat with Bruce.

 

He finally told her of what happened. They have seen war, death, and destruction. She can still hear the quaking of Bruce’s voice when he admitted his relief in flying away from earth. She’s not one for being overly emotional, and could only offer him a pat on the back in solidarity, but she understands his reluctance to return.

 

She’s still loathed to admit that the size of the ship itself is impressive—Loki chose well. She’s done enough exploring to have determined they have enough resources to last the journey, enough room to house everyone who’s survived, and keep them occupied. She’s grateful because if she was going to be forced to waste away with nothing to do, she’d definitely lose her mind. While claiming her people has been an emotional feat, staying hadn’t crossed her mind until she’d seen Thor fight for them. He tore through Hela’s army with a ferocity she’d never expected from him. And it had been beautiful, the way the electricity of lightning crackled all around him, from him. In the chaos, he was steady, but ferocious and they hadn’t stopped until the bridge was littered with their opposition.

 

She will have to teach the others to fight—a handful of them. It will give her something to do, and give the people some sense of agency. They all have the ability, it just needs to be accessed. There are enough keeping the place afloat, enough women doting on everyone, and even men regaling the children with stories. Brunnhilde will teach those who want to, to _fight_.

 

That leads her here, intent on speaking her intentions to Thor himself. He’s sitting on the floor in the diminutive training area near the back of the Statesman, one she’s sure The Grandmaster didn’t expect to be used vigorously—the ship is simply meant for transport, making travel comfortable, while sporting some adequate protection shields and a few pods. It still greatly contrasts the unassuming lifestyle he projects to those who are none-the-wiser. The lighting is harsh, shining brightly on everything wrapped in blues, reds, and silver chrome.

 

“I have a proposition for you,” Brunhilde finally says, plopping down onto the mat beside him, legs stretched out. She’s back in her black soft leather pants, her boots and form fitting breastplate. Over it she adorns a blue shawl, keeping out the chill of the ship. “I think we should train those who are willing to learn.” From the sound of things on earth, someone is always attempting world domination. And if their luck isn’t looking up from here, well they should be prepared.

 

Thor looks at her with a soft glint of relief, happy it’s her interrupting his workout—not Heimdall, finally coming to tell him something terrible is happening. He doesn’t have anything else to be doing so he spars, punching a dummy relentlessly—after laughing at the faces drawn on most of them. (Heimdall is better with communication, and Loki is definitely much slicker with his words. They can handle anything that should arise.)

 

He thinks on her request, not seeing the harm. She sits with her lip caught between her teeth as she tries not to look at him.

 

“I’m sure the people will be happy to learn from you,” Thor says, sitting on his knees, hands on his thighs.

 

“Thank you,” she nods, exhaling a breath she hadn’t known herself to be holding. She watches him, seeing the sheen of his skin and the way he’s gathering his breath. “How long have you been in here?” The warrior asks, feeling her concern bubbling to the surface.

 

He shrugs, looking to the large overhead clock above the exit. The day cycle is coming to an end, “A few hours,” he skirts the truth. He’s been in there for hours—long enough to be sporting some sore knuckles. But he’ll be fine by morning. “Come to scold me for not looking after myself?”

 

“Partly,” she shrugs, “You weren’t at breakfast. Did you not eat?”

 

“Wasn’t hungry,” Thor shrugs, wiping his brow. She gives him a look, clearly not believing him.

 

She stands before him, offering a hand, “Come on,” She pulls him to his feet with more effort than she’s grown used to feeling, his body weighted differently—like hers— from the adversaries she’s grown accustomed to tossing around in the galaxy. But his weight will need to be doubled before she breaks a sweat helping him up, “You’ve been in here long enough,” she chides.

 

Just then, his stomach growls, and he begins to feel the clawing ache of hunger. He could eat a whole cow at the moment. He burns through energy at the blink of an eye. But it’s easy to ignore when he’s feeling gnawing regret in his stomach before hunger. He hadn’t been there when Loki was too busy with his parties, his plays, to notice something was happening. That something? Hela. And they all paid for it.

 

“How’s the eye?” Brunnhilde asks, walking on his left side, within arm’s reach of him. He doesn’t have to completely turn his head to look down at her. He appreciates that she is mindful, even if neither of them address it. He’s still not used to the changes to his vision. He imagines he is the spitting image of his father. He doesn’t quite know how much older Brunhilde is… not that he minds either way.

 

“It’s fine, sore.” He says honestly. They head towards his rooms. “It doesn’t hurt so much anymore—just aches.”

 

Brunnhilde makes a face, “At least it looks cool?” She offers, hoping to lighten the mood.

 

He snorts. “That is a plus.” They push into his chambers, easily the largest room in the whole ship, above the rest. It’s not a large room when compared to the rooms he grew up in, but it’s enough. His bed sits at the center of the room, the frame is encased, the metal hunkered down to the floor. She can’t imagine how many times he would walk right into it in the future, giggling to herself as the thought crosses her mind.

 

“I’m going to bathe, make yourself comfortable.” Thor announces, disappearing into the bathroom. He haphazardly presses the buttons, adjusts the water as he begins to strip.

 

The water is hot, but he doesn’t mind, hands braced on the wall as he stands under the spray. He closes his eyes, praying for wisdom and peace.

 

Brunnhilde calls down to the kitchens to get something brought up for him—a share big enough, but no one else goes without, and Thor isn’t left starving. She’d heard his stomach grumbling. Worry gnaws at her mind. Thor is clearly the martyring type. She hopes this won’t last him too much longer, but is cutting him some slack because he’s grieving. And even if she despised the man who sat on the throne before Thor—Odin is his father.

 

Thor gained an evil sister, learned of the dark past of the monarchy, and then had to put those emotions into a box just to release Surtur and destroy his home. Honestly, being neglectful of his health is par for the course at this point. She’s seen it all too; she’s done the same thing to herself.

 

There’s a knock on the door, and she opens it without asking who it is. Two young women bound into the room to deliver Thor’s meal. Their giggling and playfully smiling seizes when they realize Brunnhilde’s presence in his chambers.

 

“Ladies…” the Valkyrie tries to keep her expression stoic, but she really wants to laugh. She doesn’t have to guess what they want. They aren’t going to get it tonight, or ever if Brunnhilde’s assumption about Thor’s character is correct. He’s not for casual lays. Especially with women easily impressed by his title—at least not anymore. Brunnhilde hasn’t seen him so much as attempt to flirt with anyone who isn’t herself, and even that has all but stopped. She doesn’t want to analyze why she’s noticed or why these two _girls_ have brought her such irrational amounts of displeasure. She won’t deny they’re beautiful though. And if she weren’t so annoyed, she could find the words to say so.

 

The one who appears to be the younger, even bolder of them opens her mouth to speak. “Apologies, m’lady—“

 

“What?” Brunnhilde actually snorts at the title. The last time she’d been referred to as a _lady,_ it had been in jest and her sisters had almost burst into tears with their laughter.

 

The two young women before her begin to sputter as she regards them with knit brows and impatience. She cuts them off with a wave of her hand, shooing them out of the King’s chambers less than graciously.

 

“ _Who knew she could be such a bitch?”_

 

Brunnhilde snorts as she hears the assessment.

 

“What’s funny?” Thor asks, exiting the bathroom as he finishes wrapping himself in a towel. His hair is still dripping, and Brunnhilde sucks in a breath as her eyes track a droplet trailing down his neck. She internally scolds herself for such a girlish response. He doesn’t seem to notice, or at least he has sense enough to keep his smile to himself.

 

“Nothing,” Brunnhilde shrugs. She tells herself she won’t mention the women all but drooling at the prospect of catching a glimpse of him in his rooms, not because she’s jealous; because it’s a non-factor.

 

It’s a lie of course. Part of her wonders what he even sees in her. There’s are a many less than savory things she could unpack and lay at his feet. He deserves more than a drunken, disgraced warrior.

 

Her heart has staked a claim on him now though and it’s too late to fight it really. So she’ll settle for making sure he doesn’t allow himself to drown in his own regrets.

 

He grabs a pair of sleep pants, a pair of unremarkable linen pants that tie off at his hips and hang loosely. He pulls them on and throws himself into his bed with a comical flop. She watches with a soft smile as he hugs a pillow and lets out a long dramatic sigh.

 

“You’re going to catch a cold,” Brunnhilde muses, knowing it’s probably unlikely. She herself has only gotten sick once in the last millennia and that was when she first found herself on Sakaar. Thor snorts into his pillow.

 

“Highly unlikely. I survived losing my eye, I think wet hair is fine.”

 

“So your plan is to die of starvation instead,” Brunnhilde lightly jabs, smirking to herself when he doesn’t immediately respond; though, he’s not nearly as quick witted as she is—doesn’t have the heart for it or maybe it’s just a lack of energy. “Come on, you’re hungry.”

 

“Fine,” he grumbles like a petulant child who’s been bested, his brows pulled in slightly and his mouth set flatly. _He’s adorable._ She tries really hard not to laugh. He plops himself into a chair, and watches her as she pours him a glass of water.

 

“Did you get whatever that was, out of your system?” Brunnhilde asks, setting his cup in front of him.

 

“Hm?” He asks, picking at the options before him politely. He remembers his first experience on earth and how he’d torn through everything and even broke a cup—apparently that’s frowned upon. He eats how his mother tried to ingrain in them—he and Loki—from a young age. “Sit, have some of this…” he gestures to the trays, the fruit, bread, and mostly-broth soup.

 

“I ate already,” she does plop into the seat beside him however, eying him carefully.

 

After a few moments of silence, and he downs his first glass of water, he swallows thickly. “I’m fine, really. Just going a little stir crazy.”

 

“It’s been a week,” Brunnhilde teases him lightly. “How long will you last before you’re telling the pilot to hurry us along?”

 

“Maybe another week,” Thor jokes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks at her from the corner of his eye sheepishly. “It honestly doesn’t feel like it’s been 7 whole days. It’s all starting to bleed together…”

 

From the sadness in his eye; she knows what he’s saying. He’s been sitting and festering in the same sadness for an entire week. It’s all the same now.

 

“Been there,” Brunnhilde mutters.

 

“Sorry,” Thor shakes his head, “I’m not trying to take away from what you’ve—“

 

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I’m saying I understand…” Brunnhilde reaches for his hand. “And you don’t have to deal with it alone. I tried to, on Sakaar, it doesn’t work. You’ll make yourself sick.”

 

“Do you—“ he pauses, looking in her face before he continues, “would you like to talk about it now?”

 

“I can’t quite put it to more words than I’ve already said, yet.” She hums, swallowing thickly, shaking her head and immediately feeling like a hypocrite.

 

“One day then,” Thor surmises, “When you can…”

 

“One day,” She nods, “And the same for you?” _To me,_ is implied and left unsaid. She pats his hand and he catches it in his grip, feeling anchored by holding onto it.

 

“Will you stay?” He asks, after he’s done eating, yawning loudly. He braces his free hand on the table, fist sitting on the edge. Then he realizes what he’s just asked of her and shakes his head, “That’s probably too forward of me—of course you don’t want to stay… you have things to be—“

 

“I really don’t,” Brunnhilde shakes her head, staring off as she replies flatly. They both snort before glancing at each other. “It’s not too forward…I’ll stay.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, writing and reading instead of sleeping. Hopefully I caught all of my typos.

Brunnhilde wipes the sweat from her brow during a vigorous training hour with her first class. It didn't take Thor long to make an announcement after it was first brought to his attention. He gets less time in the training rooms to himself but he doesn't find that it's hard to shift around his schedule. He's king, after all.

There are so many people who want to learn, she's split them into two different classes. One is more focused on older people, and another with children whose first experiences with fear and violence was the moment Hela had returned. She keeps them occupied before school commences. Thor has done a good job of making sure there's a sense of normalcy and that entails their continued education in Mathematics, History, along with a Sciences crash course.

She spends the morning with one class, and in the evenings, another. The youngest of the groups all seem to be catching on quick enough, eager to learn from the last Valkyrie. There are a few people starting late but they all live such long lives, there's more than enough time to catch up. And she's not planning on taking them into battle—she's quite done with battles, she hopes.

"Good!" She points at a girl, Arin, watching her throw a punch at her male partner. He deftly avoids the strike but her form was flawless. She's surrounded by quick studies, it appears. She walks between the groups of people as they lightly spar with one another.

She'd just started her lessons a few days ago, but they filled up rather quickly after Thor made the announcement over the lunch hour. She hadn't expected so many young people, but men. She smiled with pride as all their eyes found her, took stock of their excited hands clasped in their laps, looks of begging sent in their parents directions.

The days of the Valkyrie have long passed, and she hadn't thought there were many girls wanting to roughen their hands. But there's a mix of both genders that makes her beam happily.

There weren't many weapons at their disposal in regards to swords. Despite the battles the Grandmaster held starring his champions, the gladiator style combat, Sakaar is a planet of people much more transfixed by guns and blasters. And because of that, over the years, she's adapted her style. When they got where they were going, better weapons could be forged, weapons reminiscent of Asgard's history with swordsmanship and craftsmanship. For now, hand to hand combat was the focus. She enlists the help of the surviving gladiators, Korg being the most enthusiastic to be involved. There isn't much else for them to do now that fighting is all they know.

She stood before the group, hands behind her back. The timer would sound soon, calling an end to the morning session. She wouldn't be a very responsible teacher if she left them to over-exert themselves and miss their lunch hour. She can't imagine many parents would send their children back to her.

"I will see you all tomorrow!" She announces over the loud timer at the mouth of the room. Over the arch way, the analog numbers are etched in red. "Ander, there won't be any _demonstrations_ in the mess hall will there?"

The boy in question, with tan skin and bronzy locs intricately woven away from his face, frowns. His friends chuckle and tease him as he nods at their instructor. "No, Valkyrie."

"Good," Brunnhilde smirks, hands on her hips, "Go on. I'll see you tomorrow."

She gets her water flask from the floor as those tasked with cleaning the room enter. She stays behind to gather the towels that were used, usually pushing the cart to one of the main laundry rooms near the belly of the ship. She has enough time to go grab a shower in the communal baths in the locker rooms after as well if she's not up to heading for her quarters. With her towels gathered, she carts them towards the elevators. She uses her foot to push the down arrow.

The doors open and reveal that Loki is already in the lift. He awkwardly stares at her before nodding and moving out of the way so she can pass. She hasn't spoken to him much, if at all. She does little to acknowledge him now.

Punching him in the face did little to take away the ache of watching her love die in front of her eyes, brought back in vivid detail. She'd still be holding that pain at bay in the deep recesses of her mind had it not been for him. And she wants to be okay with it again. But he made sure to bring it forward in hope that he'd best her in their fight. He's done nothing to right that wrong—and she doesn't plan to listen when he attempts to, if even even does.

He opens his mouth to say something but she rolls her eyes and closes the door before he can finish putting clever words to his thoughts. The lift closes with a hiss and she exhales a deep breath. She raises her rage-quaking hands, balling them into fists.

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She still has nightmares about that fateful day. All these years later, she can still feel the anxiety she'd never felt before battle. She can still feel Sigrun's lips pressed against hers in their last kiss. Maybe it wouldn't be so terrible to remember that alone. But the last image she has of the woman she loved for so long is the black blade from Hela's hateful grasp lodged in her neck, sending her flying from her white winged horse. Brunnhilde had fallen from the sky, knocked unconscious from the fall. When she'd awoken, forgotten in battle with her fallen sisters, a cry was ripped from her lungs, agonized and torn.

She swallows thickly, pressing the heels of her palms into her reddened eyes. She could kill Loki for bringing all of this back but she knows it will do nothing to settle her fears, her dread.

She finishes up her morning the best she can, feeling like a ghost of herself. She downs an entire carafe of mulled mead, hoping it will warm her and she'll venture into a dreamless sleep, but it doesn't work and she crushes the container against the wall with a guttural, rage-filled bellow.

The room begins to spin then, her eyes going bleary, and suddenly it's as if she can't breathe. She tries to look up at the clock but can't focus on it. She's unsteady, but hasn't moved from where she stood when she threw the carafe. It's hard to pull air into her lungs and her clothes feel too tight. She pulls at the collar of her shirt, breath jagged as hot tears begin to spill from her eyes. She bites her lip to keep from wailing. Images flash in her head, blood and death, and the faces of her loved ones that she couldn't save from Hela's wrath.

"Brunn?" Thor enters her rooms, hands braced in the archway as he stares at the state of the room. He'd come to seek her out after his meetings with Heimdall and the newly formed council. She'd become a source of comfort and fun apart from his kingly duties. Today wouldn't be one of those days, it appears.

He heard the crash from the hallways, her loud cry accompanying it. He'd assured those passing by that there was nothing to worry about but he wasn't at all sure. He was right to be uncertain.

There's glass and slices of fermented citrus on the floor. The room is in darkness, save for the light from above the table. He springs into action, and he takes long strides to make it to her where she sits on the edge of her bed, her clothes half on, sheets clutched in her hands.

She tries to speak, to put words to the panic she's suddenly feeling. This hasn't happened to her in years, the sensation that the earth is moments from swallowing her—like she's drowning in instantaneous, debilitating anxiety—and breathing has become an impossible task in itself. He crouches in front of her, eyes on her tear-stained face. "Look at me, deep breathes." His voice sounds like its coming from underwater until he takes hold of her hands, and gets her eyes focused on his face, "You're okay." He gets her inhaling and exhaling, eyes never leaving her face as she tries to get a handle on her frayed nerves. (For a moment he panics and considers saying _the sun is getting real low,_ but he knows that definitely won't work. This is nothing like trying to get Bruce not to turn—he never knows what to say to Bruce because at the back of his mind he knows Hulk will rip a hole in the hull of the ship.)

He starts to tell her about the day he's had, asking her about hers to get her engaged in something other than her panic. He doesn't know how long he stays there in that very spot, muttering comforting words to reassure her that everything is fine—she's safe and that she's going to be fine once this passes—but he feels the need to make sure that she knows he is there. She's been there for him, making sure he's taking care of himself and she's worse off than he has been. He has to make sure he gets her through.

The last few nights, she's stayed in his room with him, talking and laughing and just occupying the same space. He never thought to worry of her wellbeing. He'd been wondering why the interest, and red faced at the prospect of spending time with her. He knew she's suffered alone, drank too much in her time away from home, but she'd seemed to be okay and dealing with it in her own way. He curses himself for being so oblivious.

He brushes her hair out of her face, wipes her eyes and guides her into the bathroom. She has a tub and shower in one—a marked difference from his chambers—but it still works the same. He plugs the tub, turns the knobs and starts the flow of water. He fills the water with sweet smelling oils that will soften her already smooth skin and hopefully comfort her now that she needs it.

He steps back, watching as the tub begins to fill up. She sits at the edge of the tub, her hands pressed over her eyes. Once he looks at her, he imagines he's overstepped now. "I'll give you some—"

"Stay," she calls to him shakily. "Stay," she repeats herself, a little more firmly this time. His eyes widen to the size of saucers before he gives her the softest look she's ever seen on his face.

"Okay."

He averts his eyes as she strips out of her clothes, and doesn't look up until she's in the tub. The water is a light grey, almost purple color, from a combination of the temperature and the mix of things he poured. There are some suds that obscure the view of her body. She dunks her head backwards, wetting her hair, revealing soft curls.

Thor sits with his back to the tub, and they sit in silence. He doesn't push her to discuss what happened, thinking back to the last time they broached the topic of her sadness. She'll share when she's ready and comfortable enough to put it to words. So he'll settle for being quiet but present.

"That hasn't happened in a long time," Brunnhilde says, opening the floor for discussion. The water ripples as she brings one hand to settle on the edge of the tub. Thor turns to look at her, waiting for her to continue. "I—I tucked the memories away for a long time. Started drinking. I tried to do that today. It didn't work." She swallows, her throat feeling slightly raw from crying and gasping for air. It was almost like the first time. "You didn't have to—"

"You're not alone any more."

She nods at him, swallowing down her emotion. They sit for a long time, until the water goes cold and her fingers and toes prune. She stands and drips water on him while reaching for a towel. She allows herself to laugh, and smile as he turns red looking up at her.

Brunnhilde finds his reaction to be hilarious but he doesn't turn away from her. He stays planted in his spot on the floor for a few moments, to give her time to dress. She turns to hang up her towel. And offers him a hand.

"I can have someone come clean—" he gestures to the floor "—all of this up." But she shakes her head.

"I can leave it for tomorrow. Just don't step in it, Majesty. I won't have anyone blaming me for you cutting your foot in my room." She sighs easily, stretching her loose muscles as she sits on her bed. She's dressed in a linen nightgown that stops just at the top of her thighs, appearing foreign in something that isn't armor.

"Wouldn't want that," he replies just as easy. He's keeps the same calm, easy tone since he's entered.

Her hair dampens her shoulders and back. She'll brush and braid through it. As she begins to attempt taming it, he touches her shoulder. "May I?"

Brunnhilde looks at him with a lifted brow, but nods. She pats the spot on the bed behind her before settling on the floor. And he settles there, legs bracketing her in place. He finger combs her hair, smiling as she sighs. He used to braid his mother's hair, when he was a child. She taught him—and Loki—how to braid. Said they needed to know if they too refused to cut their hair. _And one day you'll have daughters, and their mothers won't be doing all the work if I've raised you correctly._

He plaits smooth braids from the middle of her head down to the base of her skull, not too tightly but neatly.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you, Majesty?" Brunnhilde palms the back of her head, turning to look at him. He simply shrugs.

"That feels alright?" He asks, brows furrowed as he looks down at her. He leans back on one palm as she stands before him. Her gown hangs loose over one shoulder and he reaches up to caress the bare skin thoughtlessly. She tucks her fingers into his hold, taking his hand down but holding it between them as she smiles.

She remembers her class scheduled for later and her shoulders droop, "I have to teach in a few hours."

"I'll wake you up," He offers, "Rest for a little while. I won't sleep." She narrows her eyes at him, but doesn't really have the resolve to argue. She's so tired and she could use the nap. He whips back her bed sheets, "King's orders."

"I was waiting to see how long you could do without using that against me," She laughs tiredly, eyes even beginning to droop as she settles into her bed. It's much smaller than his is, but there's enough room for the both of the if they huddle together. She reaches out for him, "Lie with me."

He nods gently, toeing off his boots, unlatching his breastplate and settling them against the wall near the head of the bed. She's touched his bare skin before, as they've ended up huddled together during the night. They've yet to discuss it. But he finds that he doesn't need to question the comfort he feels around her and if the feeling isn't mutual on her end, she will have no problem saying so.

Brunnhilde presses herself to the hard contours of his body, accepting the warmth and comfort she finds in tangling her legs with his. She hooks her arms around his chest, her cheek on his shoulder. "Thank you," she mutters. He smiles and presses a chaste kiss to her temple.

"Sleep," He says. He listens to her exhale, and it is sounds like a release of more than just air.

It doesn't take long for her to settle, letting a dreamless sleep sweep her away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's done a lot of doting on him, making sure he's okay and has someone, so this chapter was born.
> 
> I wanted to tackle her PTSD as accurately as I could. As someone with anxiety, I know that for me, sometimes it's not terrible to have someone there to hold my hand through it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little chapter. Thorkyrie is soft and it makes me happy

She likes how calm he looks in his sleep; lips slightly parted, expression relaxed in deep sleep. Brunnhilde traces the slope of his nose—the perfection of it—the softness of his Cupid's bow with her thumb. He wiggles his nose and tightens his hold on her.

They've taken to sleeping in the same bed, whether it be hers or his. After her initial apprehension—her knee jerk reaction being to pull away after he'd seen her as such a mess—she pulled herself together, swallowed her pride and let him support her through her pain. She explained the images that flash behind her eyes when she closes them, letting the tears pool and fall, gripping his wrist when he lifted his hand to thumb them away. She's finally starting to feel secure enough, after years of swallowing it down.

She'd seen the anger flash in his eye, the sheer rage he felt when he discovered it had been his brother who brought on all these memories. She hadn't seen such genuine rage in him before him; not even when he was faced with fighting his estranged sister. Her breath had quickened, and it had been her to reach out, giving him a moment to catch himself. They shared her first calmed breath in days, accepting the warmth both needed to finally feel centered. Loki's antics have gone ignored from then. The fight isn't worth the aggravation. She just wants the sadness to go away.

Part of her feels like she's lost a battle somehow, letting the will to rip Loki to shreds just… be, without the energy to make him pay for it. She tells herself she just doesn't need Thor to make himself a tyrant, destroying the ship by fighting his brother, however typical of them that would be.

So he just listens, when her hands shake and she can't forget the shame of losing that day, of then running and hiding from it. Thor begrudges her very little, just wrapping an arm around her, running his fingers through her hair, tucking her into his side until she falls asleep.

He takes it all in stride, dealing with her grief and her mood swings. She's tried to apologize for being such a mess, but he just smiles at her, kissing her forehead and pulling his bed covers higher up on her shoulder. He stays awake, holding her until she falls asleep. He mulls over what kind of King he's trying to be; what kind of friend he wants to be for her. And maybe even more—definitely more.

In the mornings, she wakes before he does and looks up at him, his sleeping face. She cherishes the warmth that spreads through her at the sight of him. Knowing, somehow, that he will say—gods allowing. He's solid that way, loyal to a fault. She's sensed that in him from the beginning. Deep down she's known that there isnt much she could ever do to push him away for good. She's stuck with him now that she's let him in. He's too compassionate to let her drown in her pain. Brunnhilde hopes she never loses this.

There's a gentle intimacy that's come with him being the person she runs to. This is the opposite of what she'd intended. She wanted to be the person for him to lean on for support. But it seems she's the one leaning on him. She feels guilty, like she's taking advantage of his misplaced affection for her. Though, she'd rather ignore it. She can't think about what it means to ignore the guilt in her gut, the undercurrent of anxiety she feels because something bad is going to ruin the budding affections been between them.

The last person she cared for, died right in front of her.

Her chest tightens, and she draws in a deep breath. _No_ , she won't think like that. Nothing else can go wrong, could it? _The gods would be so cruel…_ the little voice in her head says. She knows better than to trust a thought like that.

"It's far too early for whatever thoughts are circling in that mind of yours," Thor's voice rumbles in his chest, sleepy and hoarse. He rolls onto his back, looking at her through half lidded eyes. Thor is not a morning person the way his always cheery disposition seems to suggests, but he's still gentle—reaching to cup her cheek. "Good morning, Brunn."

She groans, and rolls into her back, reaching for his hand, reminding herself to not reject his touch. He laces their fingers together, giving a squeeze. She turns back to face him again, after she swallows down her ridiculous emotions. "It is, isn't it…"

He reaches to tuck a strand of her hair behind her small ears, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead. She tucks her face into the crook of her elbow, hiding her smile.

Thor rolls out of bed with a grin on his boyishly expressive face, standing in his pants. He scratches his stomach, yawning and stretching before he heads to the bathroom.

Brunnhilde watches him go, pulling at his sheets to bury herself in the comfort of it—his smell lingers and she reflects on that just long enough to decide she definitely should not.. She listens to him going about his morning. He's grown accustomed to showers it seems. She knows she should get up, start her day, or simply go to her room. But she allows herself to close her eyes, and drift away in the silence, cocooned warmly. Yesterday she left before he could come out, today, she doesn't want to move. And when he returns, he doesn't seem to mind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to everyone who’s commented, left kudos, or simply read this story. 
> 
> Whew... Guys...GUYS! This..this is the one—my favorite chapter.

 

“There is something absurd about all of this,” The Last Valkyrie muses, her thoughts flowing freely as she and the new King sit alone in the observatory.

 

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a bit more specific, Brunn,” Thor chuckles, and she can hear the smile just as much as she sees it. She swats his arm heavily, and he grimaces but laughs all the same. “Oi!”

 

“You know what I mean—I know you know what I mean.” She rolls her eyes. Folding her hands at her knees—where her legs are crossed and balancing her on the arm of his throne—she glances at him again before her head naturally just lulls and they stare at the stars. “One life altering thing happens, and the world as we know it ends—“

 

“And you end up being friends with the King of nowhere? Who’s now got one less eye.” Thor tries not to seem so affected, but he is, and he knows that she knows it. “Aye.”

 

“I—“ she draws in a breath, “It feels like just yesterday I was thinking about where I would find something else to scrap for The Grandmaster. My history with Asgard feels like another lifetime.”

 

“It is, kind of.” Thor shrugs. “My Father made sure of that,” he sounds rueful and Brunnhilde feels regretful.

 

“I apologize,” She begins, and he shakes his head at her. “I didn’t mean to bring up such harsh—“

 

“You and I remember our home in different ways. You don’t have to spare me the ugly truths. Hela destroyed every illusion I’d ever had of what my Father was.” Thor sounds...diplomatic, like he’s already thought about this very thing a million different ways and of ways to explain it away. “I...I reckon...I’ve come to hate him.”

 

His questions have gone unanswered, leaving him with an undeniable kind of bitterness. How foolish he’d been to think he’d been ready to rule. There was a whole history he didn’t know. But he supposes, that is the ugly truth of building a kingdom. Now it no longer exists.

 

He’s called to their ancestors, to his father. No answer, so he’s no longer calling.

 

Brunnhilde draws in a breath, swallowing thickly. Before she knows it she’s wrapped him in her arms, slipping from the armrest directly into his lap. (They’ve done away with all illusions of personal space.) Her cheek pressed to his temple, he draws her closer, arms wrapped around her.

 

“There were so many lies,” He reflects, thinking of the All-Father and the made up stories he’d heard—ones that paint Asgard as a benevolent land. He’d been proud of fighting to preserve _that_ vision of Asgard. “I’m just having a hard time trying to...I don’t know.” He exhales hard, trying to push out the tension building in his chest. 

 

“You’re wondering how he could be the father you knew and the king you didn’t, all at the same time.” He looks at her like she’s read his mind. She smiles at him, running her fingers through the growing hair atop his head. She scratches her fingers lightly. Thor leans into her touch, a sound she can only imagine is rather feline in sound. She chuckles despite the heaviness of the conversation.

 

“We all have our secrets,” Thor says, relaxed under the touch of her hands. “But entire _histories_ …”

 

“Neither you or me can do anything about it now,” she replies. “I’m trying to make my peace with it, I suppose. Finally, after all these years.” She smiles at him wryly then, “As long as you don’t have any more secret siblings, then I think we’ll be fine?”

 

“From your lips to the Gods ears,” Thor snorts. “I’m hungry...are you hungry?”

 

“You _just_ ate,” Brunnhilde pulls back, laughing. She’s used to going without, as she’s survived an entire lifetime bouncing from one planet to another. Times were tough before she found the Grandmaster.

 

Thor slips from one conversation to the next effortlessly, like only a child can. But she’s gathered that they have the same pension for avoiding things they don’t want to discuss. He’s almost _obtuse._ But she knows it’s how he defends himself.

 

She’s learned that he’s incredibly smart. She supposes she should have known—an education taught to a royal is much different from the one she received, or those less fortunate than he has been.

 

The warrior has seen him with the young Asgardians; sitting in on certain classes with the older, more learned People that teach, who have survived the massacre.

(They’d lost nearly a quarter of the population to Hela and her horde of undead soldiers.)

Thor has a particular interest in science. She suspects that has to do with the time he’d spent on earth getting to know one Lady Jane. Maybe he’ll got back to her once they return to earth—the thought makes her want to recoil from him.

 

She’s being ridiculous...maybe. 

 

He’d dragged Brunn along to visit with a class when he’d had nothing to do and he was tired of consulting Heimdall on the same day to day things. He’d already gone over the SHIELD protocols he can remember. He knows SHIELD will greet them before they even touch down to earth, and they’ll expect correspondence. These things usually don’t happen quickly, but it’s him. And he’s expecting to be well received. Loki hasn’t been running amuck recently, and Thor hasn’t either. He’s not including his...conversations with Doctor Strange (whom she’s quite interested in meeting).

 

Brunnhilde is no lug, but she doesn’t have much of an appreciation for...math. She doesn’t need to know the square root of an impossibly large number to beat the brakes off her opponents. She’s always had fighting in her blood. And in that, she’s always known how to take care of herself. She gets a pang in her chest… thinks of her sisters and the horde of Pegasus’ with their riders. They were a sight to behold—to be feared and respected. It seems crazy to think but those times were simpler. When the objective was to survive bloody wars or die. Part of her is glad that Asgard prospered for a time and that the admirers she has now, never had to see it.

 

The pair make their way to the kitchen, where it’s more than likely unattended. He’s holding her hand subconsciously, dragging her along. It’s nice and she bites her generous bottom lip. “I used to sneak into the kitchen when I was a boy. Of course I would get caught, by Mother, or the cooks...but not before I could get into the honey jars, or steal the fruit prepared for breakfast the next morning.”

 

“The cakes were always my favorite…” Brunnhilde replies with a smile. He can see the sadness more than she actually feels it. “Sigrun _knew_ one of the palace maids and she’d sneak them to us when we’d run around at night—restless and looking to get into some mischief.”

 

“Kind of like we’re doing now?” He quirks a brow at her, making her laugh.

 

“Yes, exactly like this.”

 

Not really, but he seems satisfied with not knowing every detail of her romantic history. He knows what is his business and what isn’t. She quite likes that about him. He never pushes for information and seems to enjoy it more when she offers it to him on her own.  The warrior has told herself she’ll try and be more open. It’s time to speak things now, to let them out and be there—acknowledged so she can move on.

 

“Lemon cake was my favorite,” he says, sighing at the memory. “I used to gorge myself on it—ruined supper on more than one occasion. Father would always be furious with me...for never getting enough.” He cracks himself up with that,  “Not much has changed then.”

 

“I’m sure he’d be glad to know...you’re still quite insatiable.” She muses, brows furrowed as if she’s unsure of what she’s just said. She does know that he doesn’t always take no for an answer—they wouldn’t be as close as they are if he were.

 

He nods at her, making her rolls her eyes. He always looks like such a boy when he grins at her—this is like that. It warms her. 

 

“Have you seen Bruce recently?” Thor asks her, as they turn a corner, through a wide hallway. At the end of it is the large dining area, they’ll be turning just short of it. “I think he’s avoiding me.”

 

“Why would he do that?”

 

“Bruce doesn’t like to be the center of attention, I suppose. He and Hulk seem to be different that way. Banner would never put on a skirt and fight in an arena for the amusement of others,” Thor explains, and she snorts despite herself.

 

“There was more to that, you know?” She says. She wasn’t blind to the fact that Bruce wasn’t always a guest to The Grandmaster, but he’d become one once Hulk was comfortable in his life as a champion.

 

“He was a prize… the Hulk.” Thor nods, “But my point about Banner still stands. I think he thinks I want to ask him questions about it and such. And I don’t. I’m just...I’m just glad he’s alright after all this. I dragged him into my family squabble—as he’d called it.”

 

“I’m sure he just doesn’t want to be a bother,” Brunnhilde says, “I saw him with Heimdall...you should tell him what you’ve just told me, you know? He’s nervous about going back to Earth.”

 

Thor stirs, brows furrowed, “He told you this?”

 

She drops her chin slightly, “You should talk to him, Majesty.”

 

He makes a face, nodding. “I can admit I’ve been worried about him ripping a whole in the hull, but… he’s still my friend.”

 

She smiles at him, “You’re King. You can find him if you _really_ want to.”

 

He playfully, but wordlessly agrees. She laughs. They continue down the halls, and even though it’s late, there are still people making their ways throughout the ship, to their rooms.

 

They make it into the kitchen, and it’s dark. The wordlessly make it a game of finding the lights. “Godsdamnit!” Thor bellows when she wins. Brunnhilde cackles as the overhead lights above the center, industrially designed table flick on.

 

On the table is a platter, on it is a covered lemon cake.

 

**_For the King_ **

 

**_Regards,_ **

**_Ooma._ **

 

**_...Honey is in the cupboard above the sink._ **

 

Thor snorts, but his cheeks flush pink from being caught. “I should have known it wouldn’t be long before I was caught.”

 

“You got lemon cake out of it,” She grins at him, “it’s not all bad.” The warrior gathers her skirts in one hand whilst she looks at the table, “You reckon it’ll hold if I sit on it?”

 

“Why must you sit on the table, and not a chair?” He asks, but he’s trying to shake the table nonetheless. They both know either one of them can uproot the thing, but he doesn’t; neither does she.

 

Brunnhilde holds the note left from the head cook in her hands, smiling as she reads it. “Just how much do you sneak in here— _when_ do you sneak in here?” She’s been hogging a lot—if not all—of his free time; though, he doesn’t appear to mind. 

 

“Not much,” He fibs, but his smile is mischievous and it makes her laugh aloud. He loves her laugh. She doesn’t laugh hardly enough. The King of nowhere moves to the cabinet above the sink, taking the jar, honey dipper and all.

 

“It’s shaped like a honeycomb!” Brunnhilde says, near gleefully. He won’t dare comment on it, for fear that she’ll punch him.  He enjoys seeing this side of her—the side that looks to be _lighter and brighter_ since they’ve been spending time together.

 

The table miraculously holds as she sits on it. He leans on the edge, not at all pretending they’re going to be composed enough to not eat the entire lemon cake Ooma left for him—for _them_ , now. He drizzles honey all over the platter and chuckles as Brunnhilde reaches to catch some of the spillage with her finger.

 

“You are...messy.”

 

“I am impatient,” Thor comments just as easily as she’s taken to teasing him. She hums while sticking her finger into her mouth. 

 

They devour the dessert, sharing smiles and extra honey. If they could have swung it, they’d have stolen some goats milk. But there’s barely any. The cooks have been substituting it out where they can. They try not to think of how much of it was used to make him this cake. _Gods_ , and the citrus.

 

“I could still eat a horse,” Thor comments, sitting with his back to the one free wall.

 

She giggles; properly girlish. But she hops off the table and sits on the floor beside him. Yawning, she leans her head back and watches him; on his side that still sports a working eye, so he doesn’t have to do extra work. “You’re going to be sporting a belly soon enough.”

 

The King scoffs, “No…” she hums despite his denial and he rolls his eyes. “More for you to grab on to in your sleep.”

 

“Shut up,” she shoves him back. They laugh together, sitting in the shadow cast from the only lights on. Once she looks at him, her grin softens to a thoughtful, emotional smile. “I do have to thank you...that you’ve stood with me through—“

 

“If you call yourself an _emotional_ baby I will actually challenge you to a duel,” Thor cuts her off, his tone flat but a twinkle in his eye.

 

Brunnhilde cackles, grasping his arm. She laughs so hard, her stomach hurts. He actually giggles at her, making her laugh harder and her eyes water. “Enough!” She shakes her head, settling her on his arm. She pauses and pulls back, “I would beat you...terribly. And you know it.”

 

“I don’t know about that. I beat a Hulk you know?”

 

“Who do you think sharpened his battle skill? Korg?” She stares at him with a quirked brow.

 

He takes her hand, looking her in the eyes as he kisses the knuckles of her pointer and middle fingers. “You are exceptional—I know.”

 

Thor gives her a look that she would only be able to describe as heated. He looks away, massaging her hand in his. He smiles to himself, “You know...I never thought we would be how we are now?” He distinctively remembers how the thought of talking to her, tied his tongue and left him breathless. How he didn’t haven’t a bruise on his face from smacking into that shelf in Bruce’s room...he will never know. 

 

“Friends?” She asks, and it immediately sounds silly to hear the word. He looks at her then and she knows it _is_. His eye twinkles with an emotion she hasn’t seen on his face before. “I told you not to get familiar.”

 

He exhales a soft chortle, again kissing her knuckles. “I’ve never been a good listener.”

 

“I guess, I’ve been bad at following my own rules as well.” 

 

He looks at her then, caught off guard by her own _admission_. 

 

It’s Brunnhilde that sits up straighter so she can press her lips to his.


End file.
